


Dead Hands (The Romantic Intellectualism Dichotomy Remix)

by runningscissors



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV), The Queen's Gambit - Walter Tevis
Genre: Canon - Book & TV Combination, Canon Compliant, Counterculture, Episode Related, Episode Six: Adjournment, F/M, Implied/Referenced Addiction, Introspection, Past Beth Harmon/Harry Beltik, Remix, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningscissors/pseuds/runningscissors
Summary: "Benny knows what the optics are-- the seasoned professional taking an attractive young ingenue under his wing, ‘teaching’ her everything he knows, it reads like a drugstore paperback. Honestly, he’s not sure who should be more insulted: him, for the implication that he would seduce a eighteen-year-old under the guise of mentoring her, or Beth, for people thinking she could be so gullibly had."
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Comments: 13
Kudos: 108





	Dead Hands (The Romantic Intellectualism Dichotomy Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Scholarship is the Enemy of Romance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175580) by [runningscissors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningscissors/pseuds/runningscissors). 



> Is it gauche to remix your own work? Oh, well... 
> 
> I've combined canonical elements from both sources, including dialogue from the book. Title comes from a poker term for when the remainder of the hand is unplayable. Something I know even less than chess about.

“Call,” the air is thick with smoke, a heavy, cloying curtain of tobacco and grass that makes his eyes burn beneath the brim of his hat. The man across from him, a thick armed Purto Rican in a guayabera, chews on his toothpick in response. 

The U.S. Championship is in five days, and the first place winnings are more than enough to cover his tab. 

“Don’t worry,” Benny drawls, “I’m good for it.” 

  
  


+

  
  


Benny watches Beth out of the corner of his eye as the Manhattan skyline comes into view, the way the reflection on the passenger side window scatters light from the skyscrapers off her pale cheeks. 

He’s driven into the city a countless number of times, that by now the buildings gleaming in the darkness are just that, buildings. But then he catches Beth’s pleased little smile as she gazes out the window. The way her eyes flutter down to her lap then back to the skyline in that demure way of hers, like she doesn’t want to seem anything other than indifferent when really she’s just like any other first-time visitor— dazzled by the bright, beautiful lights of New York City. 

Benny has lived in New York for nine years, and he knows he will never live anywhere else. He loves it just as much now as he did when he was eighteen— officially aged out of child prodigy status and floundering, painfully green about life outside of chess and enthralled by the potent concoction of idealism and hedonism overtaking Greenwich Village. 

The grit, the chaos, the noise. This is where thought becomes change— civil rights and liberties, women's equality, peace— where dreams are both made and dashed, where skinny analytical boys finally find a sense of belonging and the confidence that comes with it. 

New York is just what Beth needs. 

  
  


\+ 

  
  


_I've been in this town so long_

_So long to the city_

_I'm fit with the stuff_

“Turn that shit off,” Benny grumbles irritably on route to the bathroom, waving his hand in the general direction of the radio as Beth busies herself making toast. He often wakes to the smells of breakfast— fresh coffee and toast, scrambled eggs left to warm on the hob. It’s nice. 

Beth is always up before him. No matter how early he rises, she still beats him to it, freshly showered and dressed, sat primly at his kitchen table with a haughty little look in her eye when he eventually pads out. He could tell how off-balanced she’d felt that first morning, stumbling up off the air mattress in her pyjamas, her hair mussed. 

He’d taken an inordinate amount of enjoyment in watching her squirm in her chair. He still does. 

Now, she leaves her clothes for the next day folded neatly on the floor beside her as she bunks down for the night, her towel and toiletries bag placed nearby. He’d gleaned pretty quickly that Beth doesn’t like others to see her as anything other than fully put together.

“Gosh, and here I was thinking all you Californians loved good vibrations” she rolls her eyes but acquiesces and changes the dial. 

“I’m from Burbank, not Malibu,” he mutters. “I hate the beach.” 

When he returns, Beth is sitting at the table with one leg folded up, a piece of toast balanced on her knee as she reaches for a white bishop. Lulu plays now, which may be worse than the Beach Boys, and he watches her gently groove to the music. 

It’s these tantalizing glimpses of the girl behind the mask that intrigue him. The aloof persona Beth seems set on cultivating for herself may beguile others, as he expects is her plan, but he sees it for what it is— a ruse to keep people from noticing how much of herself she leaves on the board, another piece of her soul torn out in sacrifice for the win. It’s why she crumbles to pieces when she loses. They’ll have to work on that if she wants to keep her cool against Borgov, but he loathes to do it. There’s something beautiful in watching Beth play that way— like watching a flame as it engulfs a log in the fire, the way it cracks and sparks. 

Having grown up in Southern California, Benny knows a thing or two about fire, and he sees it in Beth. Something inside of her burns like a wildfire— intense and unpredictable, utterly destructive when left unchecked. 

It could be a product of her youth, not even twenty yet and already on the fast track to World Champion, but he doubts it. 

Benny’s reminded of something he read once about Michelangelo, that he could see his sculptures already formed within the rock, and it was his task to release it. The process of training Beth is like a sculptor’s in some ways— chipping away at the rock diligently and purposefully until the image reveals itself. 

Beth’s true brilliance is suffocated by self-doubt and insecurity. She has no idea who she is or what she’s truly capable of achieving. But Benny can see it, and if he has to break her down to build her back up stronger and better than before, then he will. 

  
  


\+ 

  
  


“We were wondering why we hadn’t seen you at _Zinc’s_ lately,” Wexler says quietly as Beth and Cleo make friendly in the kitchen. “Arthur here was sure you were hiding from a game gone awry—” well, that wasn’t _untrue_ strictly speaking, but he’d hustled several unknowing tourists at Washington Square while Beth had gone on one of her shopping excursions, so he was okay for a bit. _Well_ , enough to settle with Yariel at least. Wexler smirks now, throwing a knowing look to Levertov, “—but I suppose this is a better excuse.” 

“Been busy,” Benny mutters, choosing to ignore Wexler and Levertov’s little smirks. 

“Yes, we can see that,” Levertov replies. 

Benny knows what the optics are— the seasoned professional taking an attractive young ingenue under his wing, ‘teaching’ her everything he knows— it reads like a trashy drugstore paperback. Honestly, he’s not sure who should be more insulted: him, for the implication that he would seduce a fucking eighteen-year-old, under the guise of mentoring her, or Beth, for people thinking she could be so gullibly had. He has no interest in being some kind of Humbert Humbert, a fucking horndog lusting after young, nubile skirt. Beth casually mentions Harry Beltik's name enough to make Benny question the dynamic of their working relationship, which puts their whole interaction at the bar in Ohio in a new perspective. Did she think Benny was propositioning her, using the offer to train her as a way to get into her pants? Fuck, is that what Beltik did to her? Swooped in on a lonely girl, twice orphaned, with the offer to teach her.   
  
Jesus, he hopes not. 

Benny invited Beth to New York because he _knows_ without a shadow of a doubt that Beth is the best player he has ever seen, and with a little training, she will be an absolute legend. He wants to help her, not fuck her. 

And it seems like there aren't many other people in Beth's life able to do that. He'd heard rumours about Mexico, that Beth found her mother dead in their hotel room. She'd agreed to come with him so quickly, not even blinking at the prospect of being away from home for five weeks, no one to call or check-in with. 

“You should see her play. It’s unbelievable,” Benny murmurs, “in Ohio, she made Pavel cry, actual fat tears welling up in his eyes. I swear to Christ, I’ve never seen a player more intuitive than Beth. It’s like she pulls moves from the goddamn ether.” 

It’s abundantly clear that any chances Benny has of winning games against Beth are rapidly shrinking with every day. Of course, he will never admit that to her. 

“It’s unlike you to heap praise,” Wexler says wryly, and Levertov grins.

Benny glances over his shoulder to find Beth staring at him in return, her eyes dark and searching. Okay, maybe he's attracted, but who wouldn't be. “I do when it’s deserved.”

\+ 

Even though he knows no one will believe him, he truly has no intentions to sleep with Beth while she stays with him, up until the moment he does.

Sex, in his experience, while certainly enjoyable, is a distraction. 

There have been women, sure, ones he genuinely liked even, but they always fizzle out as fast as they begin— just another frivolous diversion in the end. If anyone had wanted something more from him, he never gave it much thought. 

He’s been told to go to hell more than once, which maybe he deserves. 

He and Beth only have a small window to train, and sex is absolutely the last thing they need messing things up. Then she wins ninety dollars off him in less than an hour, and the convictions he had about the whole thing collapses. 

He assumed Beth didn’t need assurances or platitudes— the _that was great_ and _how was it for you—_ he was there, he knows it was fucking good, fantastic even, felt the clench of her body as she convulsed around him. So, what’s the point in talking about it? 

But from the way she roughly pulls at the covers, her back turned in a clear sign to _fuck off,_ maybe he’d miscalculated. If she’s still sore about it tomorrow, he’ll have to say something. They can’t spend the next two weeks with Beth pissy at him for not being some gentle lover. 

Then in the morning, she’s fine, just as casually distant as always. Benny had her spread out naked and gasping on his bed last night, yet she’s still up before him, prim and proper at the kitchen table, shoulders tensed as she plays out a game. He’s not sure what he expected the next day would bring; he’d not really thought that far ahead, more concerned in the moment with his overwhelming desire, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears and below his waist in equal pressure. 

So maybe it is what it is. 

He doesn’t know much about Beth’s personal life, they rarely talk about things like that, but he’s willing to bet that intimacy isn’t something she has too much experience with. A few stilted encounters, maybe, awkward sex with some absolute stupe, the type to shoot his wad and leave her hanging, but nothing worth remembering. And that makes sense, Beth’s life is chess, just as his is, and she’s young. 

Beth always seems so confident in everything she does, head held high, shoulders back, defying anyone who questions or challenges her. But, there’s this vibe of inexperience, or maybe it’s uncertainty surrounding Beth, too, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. She’s got the mechanics of it down, tab A inserts into tab B, but sex is more than that— at least it should be. It’s about feeling _good._

“This all right?” He asks, her body tense as he mouths at her neck, his hands skimming up her side, her nipple pebbling under his fingers. 

“Yeah,” she gasps, voice small and shaky, and he’s about to pull back because if she’s not fully into it, then this is dead in the water, but she’s already arching into his touch, fingers like a vice in his hair, almost to the point of pain. “Yeah, this is fine.” 

He can feel it in the way she tentatively opens up as he licks into her mouth, the tight clench of her hands on his body as they fuck, the initial stiffness in her limbs even as she vigorously reciprocates. 

The instinct is there, _the want—_ it’s just smothered under everything that makes Beth, well, _Beth_. 

Her mind on overdrive, working through it all. Her grasp on control unravelling around her. She wants to let go, he can feel it, she just doesn't know how. 

So he shows her, feels the heady sensation of Beth’s penetrating, observant stare on him as she watches, internalizes, then imitates, like osmosis— the curl of her body around his in bed, her soft, girlish giggle, her breathy, quiet moans. 

Benny knows that she’s following his lead, won’t voice any of the hundreds of thoughts swirling around in her head until he says something first— so he doesn’t. 

What’s there to talk about? 

That he likes her in his bed? The comfort he finds in their quiet evenings? That yeah, he might have taught Beth something, but she’s changed his game much more? It doesn’t mean anything, just more distraction. And anyway, they don’t need it. They think the same way, their brains wired on the same frequency; surely she knows how he feels. There will be time later, after Paris, to discuss things.

Besides, if he lets this all seep into one another, chess and sex, and the little frown Beth has when she concentrates that drives him crazy, then chess will never just be _chess_ again. 

And chess is way too important to let it be tainted by anything or anyone. 

So, instead, he drills her on imbalances and odds; Sanz’s endgame sacrifice in ‘33; throws her back issues of _Neue Freie Presse, American Chess Bulletin, Magyar Sakkvilág_ and every other periodical he owns, pages littered with his scrawling marginalia, until the paper piles tower her from her spot on the floor. He pushes till he thinks Beth’s going to finally snap and tell him to get bent or fuck off or both, but she doesn’t. She takes it all and more, like she’s challenging him to stump her, to toss her something she can’t handle. 

Then she creams him three up, three down, his jaw clenched, back teeth grinding as she topples his king, again and again, asserting her control. 

Benny realizes Beth is the same way with intimacy. Her uncertainty having bled into its own form of passivity. Beth never really initiates, the odd brush of her fingers in his hair maybe, but it’s him who leads, who cajoles, and Beth, the willing partner, who challenges him for more. 

So, he does. Pushing, testing for the pressure points in the walls Beth has built up around her. The crossing line between a grin and a grimace, a giggle and an annoyed eye roll. The moment she’ll push him away rather than pull him closer. 

This is never more apparent than when they have sex. It isn’t that Beth is uninterested, quite the opposite actually. She just wants Benny to take her there, wants to close her eyes and not think, just feel. 

He wonders if this is what drinking does for her usually.

To his surprise, this dynamic is okay with him. He’s never thought of himself as a dominant person when it comes to sex, but he can’t deny the pleasure he takes in having Beth defer to him, like some fucked up balancing of the scales. Not that he needs her to fluff up his fragile masculinity or ego, he’s more than secure enough, and Beth would never do that, even if he weren’t. 

It’s _him_ that gives her pleasure, makes her back arch off the mattress, _his_ mouth the cause of her fingers white-knuckled in the sheets as her thighs shake around his head, her heavy panting breath in his ear when _he_ fuck her harder, faster, her knees bent around his arms. 

But just like with chess, even when Beth is passive, she’s still in control. Lets him play himself into a corner, then sweeps in for the kill. He wrecks himself again and again in pursuit of her pleasure. 

_La petite morte,_ the French call it, and Jesus, but it is. Another piece of himself lost to the crook of her neck. 

He’s so focused on her he barely even notices the battering ram Beth has taken to his own walls, the fissures and cracks dispersed throughout with the soft glide of her fingers on his neck as they sway to music, lazily passing a joint back and forth between them. 

Later, he’ll tell himself it was the grass they’d smoked, but it’s a flimsy excuse. 

“Am I normal? I feel normal—” she asks, pupils blown wide, “but my head sometimes…” 

More glimpses of the girl beneath and he _wants._

It’s careening away from him, his wheels fishtailing on black ice. It wasn’t meant to go like this. She wasn’t meant to pull him in this way, this girl with the whole world in her hands. 

“Benny,” she says, her voice soft and questioning, but he has no answers. He has nothing to give her. 

“C’mon,” he replies. “I’m wiped. Let’s call it a night.” 

  
  


\+ 

“What should we do for dinner?” Beth asks over her shoulder, poking around his barren cupboard. They usually play a round of blitz to decide who will make the shop run, but with Beth’s flight only two days away, domestics have gone to the wayside. 

Benny looks up from his board, trying to work his way through a perpetual check, then at the clock. “Don’t worry about it. I have a poker game at eight o’clock.”

Beth turns on her heel, brows furrowed. “Tonight?” She asks incredulously. “You have a poker game tonight?” 

Benny returns to his game, promoting his knight. “Yeah, why?” 

Beth spins back to the cupboard, her back to him once more. “Just surprised, I guess. You’ve gone this long without going, I just assumed…” her voice dies off, and she renews her search, stretching up onto the balls of her feet to see the top shelf. 

“Yeah, well, tonight’s pot is big. I can’t really afford to miss it. Didn’t make as much as I thought I was going to in Ohio, and I haven’t done anything else while you’ve been here, so if I want to ever buy food again, or pay my rent, I need to go.” 

Beth whirls around again, little spots of colour in her cheeks and a scowl on her face. “You’re the one who invited me here.” She snaps, “If you needed to do things, or I was keeping you from stuff, you could have gone out whenever. You don’t have to babysit me.”  
  
“I’m not,” Benny replies, trying to keep his voice calm. “You haven’t kept me from stuff, and I’m not asking for permission. I’m just giving you a heads up that I won’t be here tonight.” 

He can feel his heart thundering in his ears as Beth turns once more. “No problem, do whatever you want. It’s your apartment,” she says in a clipped tone as she shuts the cupboard with more force than it needs. He turns in his chair to watch her cross the room and sit on the floor, snatching up a book on her way. “I’ll be out of your hair soon anyway.” 

“Christ, Beth, it’s just a game. You can come if you want. I don’t care.” 

It’s immediately clear he’s said the wrong thing, Beth’s shoulders tensing up, eyes flashing with anger. “No thanks,” she says tersely and buries her head in whatever she’s going to pretend to read. 

He rolls his eyes and returns to his game, but he can’t concentrate, hyper-aware of every turn the page behind him, Beth’s long, deep breaths, and soon gives up, swearing darkly under his breath as he stands and shrugs into his coat. It’s only six-thirty, but it’s better to give her space, let her get whatever has pissed her off out of her system without him breathing down her neck. 

They could both probably use the space. 

“I’ve got an extra key, so make sure you keep the door locked.” He calls, putting on his hat. Beth makes a noncommittal sound in acknowledgement, never looking up from her book. 

Benny releases a heavy breath once he’s in the outside corridor, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face.   
  
_Fuck,_ what is he doing?   


\+ 

  
  


The evening is a shitshow. There’s no other way to describe it. 

He makes fucking pennies compared to the major score he should have racked in, kicks the bucket to some NYU frat boy whose Elo score is not even worth a glace at, his mind fogged out on Beth and their argument.

Why is she so mad he left? It’s only a few hours, and it’s not like he was bailing on plans. What does it matter anyway? As she said, she’s leaving soon. 

Shit, the thought sends his heart spiking erratically. Beth leaves in two days, and then what? Back to the grind, business as usual? He didn’t even notice how empty his days and nights were till Beth filled them. 

He doesn’t want to go back. 

When he stumbles back to the apartment, Beth is still up, water boiling on the hob as she scans through a pamphlet at the counter in her pyjamas. She straightens when he comes in, a sour look on her face.   
  
“I didn’t think you’d be back yet,” Beth says, and he is undone at the sight of her. He rushes her, grabbing at her face as he devours her mouth, her hands knocking his hat off in their haste to anchor him. They kiss wantonly, hot, open-mouthed kisses, her hands sliding to grip his back. 

The sting of her teeth nipping at his lip, the wet collide of their tongue as she soothes the wound. He can’t imagine tiring of this. 

“The water,” she breaks off to gasp, and he reaches blindly for the knob to turn off the hot plate. Then he’s helping her up onto the countertop, yanking down her bottoms with the silent nod of her head, her chest heaving as she stares down at him when he sinks to his knees.   
  
“Benny,” she whispers, the end of his name bit off in a loud gasp when he puts his mouth on her, long laps of his tongue that have her panting loudly, then keening when he sucks. Jesus, he feels fucking feral for it— for her noises, her stuttering breaths, her long, elegant fingers tangled in his hair. 

Beth braces herself further onto the counter, and he feels her lurch away momentarily with a startled _fuck_ when her hand lands in the open butter dish. 

“Don’t stop,” she begs, and he grins, doubling his efforts, past the pain of his knees on the hard concrete floor till she falls to pieces, spine curving inwards with her release as she crumples. 

They could do this, she could stay here, and they could do this— be together. Play chess together, study together, push each other to be better, break down each other’s walls till they’re nothing but rubble and dust. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against her thigh, “I’m used to keeping my distance.” 

Beth runs her hand through his hair again, the rounded tips of her nails creating a tingle that shudders down his spine. “I suppose I am, too.” 

He smirks up at her, “I've noticed.” 

Later, he curls around her in bed, leeching her heat to fight off the chilly autumn night and his shitty insulation. 

“I couldn’t fall asleep without you in the bed,” Beth says into the darkness, her voice soft and vulnerable sounding, like she’s reluctant to admit. “So I thought I would make tea.” 

He lets the silence hang there, then he brushes a kiss across the top of her spine. “After Paris,” he says just as softly, “don’t go to Kentucky. Come back here.” 

Beth makes a humming noise in response, and he closes his eyes. 

  
  


\+ 

  
  


“See you in a week, kid,” he says at the airport, and she gives him one last fond smile before she walks away. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
